"Don't waste water; don't waste water", the words echo in my head, as a great gushing sound suddenly erupts in the public restroom. A late night stop along Route 80 has brought a welcome break from long distance travel, but the sound, bouncing off the smooth walls, seems ever louder. Surely it will stop soon, I think. It doesn't and I am irritated.
I finally exit the stall and approach the row of sinks and spot the water source. A young woman is standing over one with faucet turned full force. I do not look at her, both because of habit, "Don't stare" is another tape playing in my head, but also because my feelings toward her are negative. My depression era upbringing instilled a conservation mentality. I have been in places where water was carted back in buckets from a village well. Every drop was hoarded. The fierce gushing continues. Shortly before leaving, I mutter something about the sound reminding me of thirsty days. I still do not look at her directly, but she acknowledges my speaking.
Later I recount the episode to my husband. He asks, "Why? Why was she doing this?" Why? I never thought of that question. "STOP IT" was my only reaction. I paused, and thought. Though I had chosen not to observe her directly, I did know that she was splashing her face over and over again. Then a dark cloud rolled back -- was she bruised? Long black hair had obscured her neck and shoulders. Could she be a victim of physical abuse?
In shame I looked around and caught a glimpse of her with hat pulled low over her brow and coat collar high around her chin. I started in her direction with no idea of what I would do or say, but she was quickly gone out of the door and into the night. We two had been completely alone in the bath. Could I have been a Samaritan there to assuage a desperate need? Rules, rules. Ah, Pharisee, your name is mine.
Pat Smith writes from Omaha NE, loves teaching and serious study of history, geography & politics.